


A Very New Year

by Audrey_hythe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hospitalization, London, Love, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Surgery, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 17:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20231440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_hythe/pseuds/Audrey_hythe
Summary: An argument sends John one way, and Sherlock the other.It's New Years Eve in London and whilst Sherlock attends his mother and fathers annual, over the top party, John's sitting at a bar drinking whiskey. Only tonights the night there are multiple terror attacks across nightclubs all over London. This short story follows the pair on what they both would agree is, the worst night of their lives.





	A Very New Year

Of course this was the night, of all nights.

The evening had started with general chat between the detective and the doctor; The occasional comment on a current case, John asking about what he should wear and Sherlock replying with a grunt as he mused over The Daily Mail. 

“This is important Sherlock!” John exclaimed, “We’re telling everyone tonight. I’m no longer ‘John The Blogger’ to your parents, I’ll be ‘John The Man Shagging Their Son'.” He threw the navy suit on the bed in protest, turned on his heels and reached for the charcoal grey three piece that hung in their wardrobe.

“Don’t even think about it.” Sherlock’s voice carried through the hall and into the bedroom. “The blue is much more flattering on you.” John didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or not but he felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a smile. He took it as one.

Sherlock was slumped over his chair, legs sprawled and eyes heavy on the paper in front of him. It was only a matter of time before John commented,

“I still haven’t heard from Harry,” and there it was, Sherlock thought. John entered the living area in the navy suit, accompanied by a white shirt, grey tie and dark brown shoes. God he looks devine, Sherlock thought “She hasn’t messaged you has she?” John sat in his chair opposite Sherlock’s, perching on the end as not to ruin his crisp clothes. 

“No. But if I’’m being honest John it’s probably best she’s not there.” He flicked the page over.

“Not this again. I’m not having this argument tonight.” John stood up and put his hands on his hips “Get ready Sherlock, we’re going to be late.” 

“I’m simply stating that she does the Watson name no justice. A failed surgeon, a drug addict, homeless and some consider her a murderer…”

“SHERLOCK THAT’S ENOUGH!” John’s hand ran over his mouth and down his chin in frustration. Not today. Not this argument today. “He was my nephew Sherlock. He was going to be mine. Don’t you dare talk about that today.” Sherlock had put the paper down on the table next to him. He stood up to face John.

“John, I’m sorry. However, I do think it’s best she’s not there to embarrass you.” Sherlock stepped forward as John stepped back.

“Me? Embarrass me? You mean you. You mean your family?” John’s brain raced with thoughts, finally landing on “You’re embarrassed by me.” The realisation on John’s face seeped through, he sighed and took another step back. “I need to get out of here.” He brushed past Sherlock, grabbed his brown scarf and black coat, furiously placing them around his body. 

“John, please don’t go.” Sherlock pleaded as his boyfriend gave him one last look before shaking his head and fleeing down the stairs. A few seconds later the door slammed shut and the flat was filled with silence. 

Sherlock knew he shouldn’t have mentioned anything. Of course he wasn’t embarrassed by John. He loved that man, he wanted a family and a life with that man. He just wanted what’s best for him. Idiot. How could he have been so stupid to say or even hint at such a horrible thing. He knew that all John needed to cool off were a few glasses of whisky, he’d drink up, get a cab to The Holmes’ for their annual New Years Eve party, they’d kiss and make up and he’d proudly show John off. He just needed a minute to himself. Him and John both knew this would be the case.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

The music was deafening. Pounding through his limbs as he moved towards the bar. All John needed was a familiar face, someone who knew what he’d been through and sympathised. Frasier gave him the warmest smile as he approached.

“John! My dear God, is it really you?” Frasier worked as a bar tenderer at CLUB MM, a gay bar in which John spent most of his evenings after the fall. Frasier was a little younger than John, his hair a little blonder and his eyes a sour green. Neither had ever been romantically interested in each other but Frasier’s boyfriend had overdosed a year before the two met. He knew. Frasier understood why John would drink a bottle of whisky to himself and yet go home alone, every night. He understood the late, sleepless nights, too afraid to dream their loved ones were still awake. He understood everything and that’s just what John needed.

He placed himself on one of the red, leather barstools, coat and scarf still in place and smiled back at Frasier. “I’m afraid to say so.” John laughed a little awkwardly and looked down at his feet, knowing Frasier knew something was wrong. Without hesitation Frasier reached effortlessly for the bottle of 12 year old Dalmore, dropping a single ice cube in the bottom of a whisky tumbler. 

“Tisk tisk, what’s the boy done now?” He placed the bottle back in its location and served John the drink before turning to the till and placing him on tab number 221.

“It’s nothing really,” John sighed, “I probably over reacted.” He picked up his glass and looked down into the brown liquid.

“Drama drama John. At least he’s alive and with you. Having said that I have been seeing this guy, Samuel, he works at the barbers down the road, you know the one next to Zara?”

“Uh, yeah.” John agreed as he downed his drink.

“Easy tiger, too much more of that and you’ll be getting your claws out. I doubt you can drink like you used to.” Despite this, Fraiser had already poured him a second by the end of his sentence. 

Another bartender locked eye contact with Fraiser and called him over “Sorry Tigger, gotta dash. Be right back.” And with that John was left alone. The music and whisky warming him up. Fraiser was right. His Sherlock was alive. He really should leave and not sit alone in a bar on New Years Eve. 

He finished his drink in one smooth motion, reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his wallet when someone caught his eye. He looked to his right and there, on the barstool next to him, sat a young brunette. He couldn’t have been any older than eighteen and sweat streamed down his face. The boy seemed anxious and completely disconnected from the world around him. John approached,

“Excuse me,” his had reached out for boy’s shoulder, “are you alright?” The boy jumped, as if John had pulled him from some distance universe. His eyes were red and scatty, darting all over John’s face. It wasn’t until after John had placed his hand he saw the ear piece. Fuck. 

The wires in John’s brain connected. 

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions but all the years he’d spent serving his country he couldn’t help but think, this was organised. Was the boy being pushed to be apart of something he didn’t want to? Was he simply a lost boy in the world that terrorists picked apart and manipulated?

John looked down at where the boys hands were; firmly in his pockets. What was he doing?

“I…I…can’t…I just…” The boy suddenly averted his eyes away from John, leaning into the side the ear piece sat. Someone was talking to him. 

John didn’t know what to do. Was this some sort of silly game some teenagers were playing? Was it much more serious? Pay attention John. Scan the room. 

He stood in place but looked all around him. They were defiantly being watched. Fraiser was busy serving, the dance floor, completely packed and a couple of men were standing behind the pair at the bar, just wanting to be served. Dammit John, find the target. Find. The. Target. NOW.

He reached into his pocket to get his phone and call Sherlock, this seemed too serious for him to handle on his own. As he fumbled with his mobile, he heard the boy stammer “It’s t…t…too early. You s…said midnight.”

John’s phone was unlocked, his fingers scrolling down his previous messages until he found their last conversation. Here we go.

Sherlock, I think somethings we-

John’s fingers stopped moving.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

The cab pulled up outside Mr and Mrs Holmes’ house, located in the beautiful, secluded part of Greenwich. The house was grand but didn’t boast. It stood tall amongst the suburban houses, each one still maintaining privacy.

Sherlock stepped out of the black TX4 and gracefully onto the pavement. He’d paid swiftly before exiting, despite all his best efforts he had made the trip from 221B to his parents a fair amount and knew just how much it cost. He took a deep breathe. This was going to be hard. Even more so now his John wasn’t there to help him through all the dull conversations and god forbid…mingling. Sherlock quivered at the thought.

Before he could turn back and get into the taxi his mother opened the door. Trust her to be watching out the window for him. Camilla Holmes was a well lived woman. She was beautiful in her age and knew it. She wore a tailored black dress that reached just below her knees while bunched pearls elegantly fell over her chest. Dainty diamond earrings shone through her naturally highlighted grey hair which she wore curled, dancing on her shoulders. 

“Mother you must stop wearing such bright red lipstick, it doesn’t half age you.” Sherlock’s comment went un noticed by Camilla as her matching bright heels carried her towards her second son.

“My darling boy.” She reached a little on her toes to crane her arm around his curls, thankfully Sherlock was in need of human touch. He leaned down and into her warmth, his hands clasping around her waist. “Are you ok sweetheart?” She asked, tenderly, pulling away.

“Social events aren’t really my area.” Sherlock scuffed his feet on the gravel below and looked down.

“I know. I promise it’s not for long sweetheart.” She took a quick glance to either side of her son. The taxi had long since driven off ‘Where’s John? I thought he was coming this evening?”

“He’s not far behind, had some research at the lab he had to finish up on. Edinborough University sent him an urgent letter this morning requesting his help, something about a ‘Field Bazaar’” Sherlock looked up at his mother and knew that she could read him better than anyone. He pleaded with his eyes for her not to push. 

“Alright darling. Come on in, it’s cold out here.” She ushered him in through the ornate, onyx door. The smell of cinnamon and ginger filled his nose as he was handed a glass of mulled wine from Nicholas, The Butler.

“Thank you Nick.” Sherlock smiled at the old man who had practically been third parent to him. 

“Happy New Year Mr Holmes.” Nicholas graced his way through the crowd and away from Sherlock. 

It wasn’t long before he was lured into conversations with his aunts, uncles about his mindless, idiot cousins and all of their wonderfully dumb grandchildren. Some family friends held more of a conversation but nothing that excited Sherlock. He was starting to worry. He’d been at his parents for over an hour and nothing from John. Molly Hooper must be here somewhere, his mother and father both loved the doctor like she was one of their own. 

Sherlock laughed just at the right moment as his Uncle Leonard made a joke about boats or something, he wasn’t really listening. As the laugh died, he slipped out of the social circle and towards the kitchen, Molly was always near something cold, it was her safe space. The morgue, a kitchen, a safe bubble she could always hide in.

“There you are!” Rupert Holmes exclaimed, “Your mother told me you were here but I was stuck talking to her sister about Victoria getting into Woodbridge.You ok son?” Sherlock’s father. One of the brightest and most humble men he knew. Masters in all sciences, a Nobel Price and a doctor in Mathematics. He also liked the smell of freshly cut lemons and thoroughly enjoyed baking shows. 

“Evening father, Happy New Year.” Sherlock had been cut off in the hallway, the kitchen was only a few steps away, he just had to get Rupert out the way, locate Molly and explain that he had ruined his whole relationship with John. No biggie.

“I can see your mind is elsewhere this evening, just ensure you try the carrot, walnut and cinnamon cake. I made it myself. The original recipe included dates and no cinnamon, an Ina Garten recipe, but I added my own little twist. The cinnamon, the kick, was my own idea, thenI replaced the dates with raisins. Makes for a much more delicate and less dense cake.” Sherlock nodded and went to make towards the kitchen but Rupert delicately took his arm, “Happy New Year Son.” He gave his arm a gentle squeeze, his face a warm smile and with that he mingled his way into the conservatory.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

She, in all her life, had never been so bored. Molly stood by the grand marble fireplace that held the biggest flatscreen she had ever seen in her entire life. BBC one was on, the court down to the New Years was only a couple of hours away, that’s all she had left. A couple of hours. God she wanted to be in the kitchen. Not talking to this… this… person.

“ …which of course means I had to spend a few nights in the cell but after the first one it was quite comforting really and I kind of miss it?” Molly’s had to paralyse her eyes as to ensure they didn’t roll right out of her skull and over the rug towards Greg Lestrade. 

She eyed Greg up. Eyes widening in help as the boy she was talking to put his hand on her arm. She looked back towards Roy? Robert? Ray?? God what WAS his name? Out of the corner of her eye she caught Lestarde laughing. What a child, she thought. 

At that second, the tv flickered, all eyes turned including hers. The red banner ran along the bottom, the bright colour, burning her eyes. The hand that was on her arm slipped off and the boy was forgotten. She was too close. Too close she couldn’t read it. A few steps back and it read, clear as anything:

BREAKING NEWS: TWO MASS STABBINGS IN HOMOSEXUAL NIGHTCLUBS ACROSS LONDON. REPORTED EXPLOSION AT CLUB MM. OTHER NIGHTCLUBS AFFECTED REINBOW AND PEACH HAVAN. 

“Good evening. Breaking news for you now, three nightclubs have been what the police say ‘attacked’. The chief inspector of Scotland Yard has comment that these are not classed as acts of terrorism as present, but they are indeed focusing on the safety of civilians. If you are worried about a loved one then please call on…”

Greg stood. He wasn’t on call but this was awful. He had to help. Molly knew the A and E would be overran, sure she didn’t work up there but she was one hundred percent sure they hadn’t all made it. 

Molly looked at Greg, they both looked towards the door.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

Of course, Grandmama managed to escape the hospital and attend the world’s most over the top New Years Eve party but Molly Hooper was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock’s eyes scanned the vast, marble kitchen but he couldn’t locate her. He needed to find John and make amends. Before he even knew what he was doing his fingers had sent John a message.

John, where are you? I need to see you. -SH

As he made his way out of the kitchen and towards the door he slipped his phone into his trouser pocket, leaned towards the coat stand to retrieve his signature cloak and -

“Out the way!” Lestarde knocked Sherlock’s shoulder, sending him off balance, just about catching himself on the wall in time. What on earth, Sherlock thought.

“Gary,” Sherlock shouted “What’s happened?” Lestrade stopped and turned,

“Sherlock. Sorry mate I didn’t see you there. Didn’t even know you were here.” He clasped Sherlock’s hand in a quick shake. “Molly and I are needed, there’s been stabbings all over London nightclubs.” Molly’s head popped pout from the lounge door and she squeezed her way through the crowd towards them. The majority of the heads had all taken to finding a tv screen to gawk at instead of the little scene Sherlock and Lestarde had created. 

“Stabbings?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m afraid so. They haven’t got numbers yet just locations. I’m on the way to speak to Chief Inspector Harrison, I think he’ll want me at the explosion site.”

“Explosion?” Where is John?

“There was an explosion at CLUB MM and stabbings at REINBOW and PEACH HAVAN. Did you want to tag along Sherlock?” Molly had placed her jacket on and was pulling her long, brunette hair out from under it before giving it a quick shake so it fell naturally around her face. 

Sherlock went numb. He looked behind him at Molly, then forward at Greg. Both looked concerned.

“Sherlock, are you ok?” Molly went to place a hand on his arm in comfort but he chased himself out the door. Molly and Greg followed quickly. By the time the two of them had gotten themselves out into the fresh, cold, London air, they found Sherlock with his back to them. His head was lowered in almost a bow. 

“Sherlock.” Molly tried to grasp his attention but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. 

Greg looked at Molly, anxious “Is he on the phone?” She shrugged.

Just at that moment Sherlock, straightened and turned around. His eyes were wide and scattered, looking anywhere but his two friends.

A few moments pass before Sherlock puts the phone back in his pocket. 

“What’s happened?” Lestrade steps forward as Sherlock looks up,

“That was Mycroft. I had him track John’s last known location from his mobile. 34 minutes ago at 30 Old Compton Street.” He looked at Molly.

“CLUB MM.” She whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> To be updated every fortnight. Positive and constructive criticism always welcome in the comment section :)


End file.
